From the front page of the New York Times, May 25, 20XX:

  FIRST CONTACT: Nation Stunned As Dwarven Delegation Arrives in San Diego

  Representatives from Underground Kingdom Seek Diplomatic Relations! Historic First Contact Unfolds on California Coast!

  By Sarah Chang and Michael Rodriguez

  SAN DIEGO — In a completely unexpected event that historians are already calling the most significant diplomatic event in American history, a delegation of Dwarves arrived in San Diego Harbor yesterday morning aboard a vessel unlike anything seen in modern naval architecture. The arrival marks the first confirmed post-Event contact between the United States and what appears to be an entirely separate intelligent species.

  Captain Ghalrak Dramz, leader of the Dwarven delegation, met with Mayor Elena Rodriguez and naval officials in what sources describe as "cordial and productive" discussions. The Dwarves, who claim to represent a vast underground kingdom called the Under-Realm, have expressed interest in establishing formal diplomatic and trade relations with the United States. One of the sources we spoke to, who was present during the meeting, described the Dwarves’ comportment, behavior, and mannerisms as “guarded but cautiously friendly.”

  The Dwarves arrived aboard a vessel called the Stonebreaker late yesterday morning. Initial reports indicate the vessel sustained damage from what Captain Dramz described as a "sea monster attack" before being assisted by the U.S.S. Lexington. One crewman, who spoke to the Times on condition of anonymity, described the encounter as "the most incredible thing I've witnessed in twenty years of naval service."

  The implications of this contact extend far beyond diplomacy, however. According to sources familiar with the discussions, the Dwarves possess technological capabilities that blend what they describe as "magical arts" with advanced metallurgy and engineering.

  At time of writing, none of these claims have not been independently verified by scientific authorities. However, scientists and researchers are not as quick to dismiss the existence and potential of what the Dwarves call "magical arts" as they once were. Dr. Eleanor Winters, Professor of Theoretical Physics at MIT, cautioned against dismissing these claims outright. "After the Event, we need to reconsider our assumptions about what’s possible and what isn’t. If our entire country and all its territories can be uprooted and dumped somewhere else by some unknown force, the idea of magic existing doesn’t seem so far-fetched after all.”

  President Thomas Bannister, in a statement released by the White House press office, declared the Dwarves "welcome guests" and announced plans for a formal state reception upon their arrival in Washington. The delegation has reportedly chosen to travel cross-country by automobile rather than aircraft, citing cultural preferences.

  Bannister was not the only one giving the unexpected guests a warm welcome. "This represents an extraordinary opportunity for mutual understanding and cooperation," said Secretary of State Hannah Ascher in a hastily arranged press conference. "The United States extends its hand in friendship to the Under-Realm and looks forward to building lasting diplomatic ties."

  Many Americans view this unexpected development positively. According to a poll conducted by the Times, nearly 67% of Americans expressed optimism about potential relations with the Dwarven kingdom, while 22% reported feeling "uncertain" and 11% expressed concerns about national security implications. For many people still struggling to come to terms with the full implications of the Event and struggling to accept the reality of America’s transportation to a different world, the arrival of the Dwarves is viewed with a sense of relief.

  “It’s good to know we’re not on our own,” said 43-year-old Ronald Schmidt of Billings, Montana. “We don't know what else might be out there, but at least now we know not everyone out there is hostile.”

  19-year-old college freshman Jennifer Haines of the University of Pittsburgh was more enthusiastic. "I'm just glad they're not, like, orcs or something," she said. "I mean, actual Dwarves? With beards and armor and everything? It's incredible!"

  Captain Dramz and his delegation are expected to depart San Diego later today, beginning what officials describe as a carefully coordinated journey to the nation's capital. The route will take them through major population centers, including Phoenix, Denver, Kansas City, and St. Louis, providing opportunities for American citizens to witness this historic moment firsthand.

  Security arrangements for the cross-country journey remain classified, though sources within the Department of Homeland Security confirm that extraordinary measures are being taken to ensure the safety of the diplomatic delegation. The Secret Service has reportedly coordinated with state and local law enforcement agencies along the planned route.

  The economic implications of potential trade relations with the Under-Realm have already begun reverberating through financial markets. Stock prices for mining companies surged in after-hours trading, while defense contractors saw significant gains on speculation about access to Dwarven metallurgical expertise. Precious metals futures also spiked dramatically in after-hours trading following unconfirmed reports that the Dwarves paid for a simple knife with gold coins worth tens of thousands of dollars. The Dow Jones Industrial Average closed up 347 points in what analysts are calling the "Dwarf Boost.”

  It is the earnest hope of the Times that this historic contact will yield positive outcomes for both Americans and the people of the Under-Realm.

  Captain Dramz could not be reached for comment.

  *****Angle Inlet, Minnesota****

  Varthiel Arakanos shifted his weight in the saddle as his zburator, Icepaw, banked sharply through a bank of low-lying clouds. The Dark Elf scout narrowed his eyes against the biting coastal wind, his long white hair streaming behind him like a battle pennant. The beast beneath him—a massive, shaggy wolf with leathery wings stretching twenty feet from tip to tip—responded to the slightest pressure of his knees with the precision of a creature born to the skies.

  The Dark Elf scout had been airborne for nearly four whole days, and most of that time had been spent crossing the seemingly endless ocean just to get here. A human could not have endured such a crossing without food or sleep, but Varthiel, thank the gods, was not human. He was Sar’Kadan, and his people were not burdened by the weakness of flesh that afflicted lesser races. An hour of sleep upright in the saddle and a few bites of travel rations kept in one of his saddlebags were enough to sustain him for days at a time. The Sar'Kadan were bred for endurance.

  Below, the coastline of this strange new realm stretched endlessly in both directions—a jagged line where dark water met darker stone. A harsh, unforgiving landscape that reminded him of the northern reaches of his own domain, though lacking the elegant spires and domes that marked true civilization. The Dark Elf's violet eyes narrowed against the biting wind as he surveyed the landscape, his sharp features impassive despite the cold.

  The orders from the Lady Nyrena, his liege, were clear: observe the coastline, identify population centers, assess defensive capabilities, and report back on the military potential of these mysterious newcomers who had somehow appeared in the waters south of the Sar'Kadan domain. Varthiel had been expecting crude fishing villages or, in the case of more advanced civilizations—advanced by human standards, that is, which to Varthiel meant that they had mastered fire and the wheel—and perhaps some modest stone fortifications. The Dark Elf had heard rumors, of course. Mutterings in the barracks about the first initial reports concerning this foreign human kingdom, but he’d quite reasonably dismissed them. He knew better than to believe in wild stories about ships that moved without sails or flying metal carriages. The idea of humans doing anything that could impress the Sar’Kadan was ludicrous. Humans were primitives—short-lived, weak, and technologically backward. Their greatest achievements were pale shadows of even the most modest Sar'Kadan works.

  What he found instead defied his expectations entirely.

  Varthiel had not been privy to the full report of what the first Dark Elf scout to discover this land had seen, but he’d been able to fill in enough of the blanks to know it was supposedly impressive. The idea was laughable.

  Or so he had believed.

  Angle Inlet, Minnesota, sprawled beneath him like an open book. The Dark Elf scout hovered at an altitude that kept him well above the range of any primitive human weapons, though he doubted they would even notice him against the gray backdrop of the overcast sky. From this vantage point, he could observe without risking detection.

  What he saw…disturbed him.

  The roads—perfectly straight in places, curving in elegant arcs through the landscape—were not the rough cobblestone or packed earth he expected from human settlements. Instead, they appeared to be covered in some kind of dark, smooth material that gleamed wetly in the overcast light. Metal carriages moved along these roads without horses, without sails, without any visible means of propulsion. They moved with mechanical precision, stopping at intersections marked by tall poles topped with colored lights.

  The buildings themselves were a mixture of architectural styles that spoke to a civilization far more advanced than anything he had encountered in other human territories. Some were constructed of wood and stone, but others rose in impossible configurations of glass and metal that caught and reflected the gray light of the cloudy sky. Structures that tall should have collapsed under their own weight, yet they stood firm against the coastal winds.

  But it was the harbor that truly gave him pause. Angle Inlet, a small town of only 54 people before the Event, had always had one foot in the water. Nestled along the shores of Lake of the Woods, the town now found itself perched on the edge of what appeared to be an endless sea. The transformation had been as bewildering to its residents as it had been to the rest of America, but they had adapted with the pragmatic resilience that characterized many such small communities. They didn’t whine or grumble or tremble in fear. They accepted reality for what it was and made the best of it.

  As a result, the town’s small harbor had been enlarged since the Event, and the town’s fishing and other maritime industries were booming. The town’s population swelled to several hundred with almost breakneck speed, causing a furious boom in construction and new housing. The U.S. Coast Guard, hard-pressed to patrol the new, expanded coastline of the mainland United States, had set up a base of operations there, and several of its ships lay at anchor as they underwent refueling operations.

  Varthiel stared with growing alarm at the massive vessels resting at anchor in the bay. These were ships unlike anything he had seen before—not the rough-hewn fishing boats or even the large naval galleons of human navies he had encountered elsewhere. These vessels were constructed of metal, not wood, with strange protrusions and towers rising from their decks. No sails were visible, yet Varthiel had observed several of these behemoths moving through the water with astonishing speed earlier that day.

  He whispered a word of power, and his vision altered and sharpened, allowing him to see as if he stood in the town's central square. The streets bustled with activity despite the early hour. Humans moved about their business with purpose, many clutching small rectangular objects that they stared at intently as they walked. These devices seemed to command their complete attention, suggesting some form of scrying tool or communication device. Varthiel absorbed everything he saw like a sponge: retrieving a roll of parchment and a piece of charcoal from his saddlebag, he began to meticulously note it all down. The charcoal stick moved without his ever touching it; a simple exertion of his will and his magical talent was enough to make it move on its own, recording every word like a diligent scribe.

  Varthiel swallowed against something that was not, could not possibly be fear. “Annotations on unknown human civilization,” he began. “As witnessed firsthand by Varthiel Arakanos. By my hand and my word, I attest to the truth of this report.”

  He took a breath. “I have observed, via magical projection, what appears to be the main square of a small settlement or village. Based on my own admittedly hasty calculations, I estimate the population of this particular settlement at approximately two hundred and fifty souls, though this is merely an educated guess. They appear, with few exceptions, very well-fed, and the streets are clear of sewage. I also find it notable their apparent disregard for traditional class signifiers—individuals dressed in what would be considered fine attire in other human realms walk alongside those in simpler clothing without any visible deference. The architecture suggests a settled civilization with advanced knowledge of construction techniques. The buildings are constructed with a precision that suggests mechanized production rather than individual craftsmanship. Glass and metal feature prominently, with design elements suggesting both aesthetic and functional considerations that, at present, I cannot discern.”

  "The roads appear to be covered in some form of artificially created surface—smooth, dark, and seemingly impervious to water damage. The humans in this place use horseless conveyances that move at considerable speeds without any visible source of propulsion. They travel at speeds comparable to a galloping horse, perhaps faster on their main thoroughfares. Some appear designed for personal transport, while others seem intended for hauling goods or multiple passengers. No draft animals were observed within the settlement."

  He paused as a particularly strange vehicle—what locals would recognize as a police cruiser—moved through his field of vision. "Their military presence is evident but not overwhelming. Armed individuals in uniform patrol the settlement, carrying what appear to be handheld weapons of an unknown nature. I use the term patrol because, having observed other humans giving the ones in uniform a clear level of deference, it is probable they serve some sort of peacekeeping function. Yet, a great many of the common people also seem to possess these arms as well. What they are and how they are used, I cannot say.”

  Varthiel paused, considering his next words carefully. What he was about to record would strain credibility back in Sarnath, but his duty was to report what he saw, not what he expected to see.

  "Simply put, the level of technological advancement far exceeds anything previously documented in any other human realm known to exist in the world. I have observed no use of magic here—indeed, the humans seem to have no talent for it and no way to use it at all—and yet they seem to be capable of feats that any wizard of any race could recognize as magical. I have observed no discernible energy sources in use, yet each building is lit by steady, unwavering light—not the flickering of candle flames, but something more consistent and controlled. I have no evidence for this theory, but it is perhaps possible that these humans have found a way to capture, bind, and control lightning in a way even the Dwarves have not. I also attest to the fact that the inhabitants appear to be operating under a high degree of social organization and coordination. The layout of the settlement, clearly planned and carefully followed, suggests a level of planning rarely exhibited by their kind. Their method of travel, their manner of dress, the sophistication of their buildings—all suggest a height of wealth and sophistication no other human realm known to the Dominion has managed to achieve.”

  Varthiel's gaze turned to the harbor and lingered on a particularly massive vessel at the far end of the dock. Its hull gleamed dully in the overcast light, bristling with what could only be weapons—long, cylindrical protrusions that tracked slowly across the horizon in mechanical patterns. The Dark Elf had seen enough siege engines in his three centuries of life to recognize artillery when he saw it. But these were unlike any weapons he had encountered before—no catapults, no ballistae, no recognizable mechanisms at all.

  "Their weapons appear to be of similar advancement," he continued, his voice betraying no emotion. “Their defensive capabilities remain unclear, though I have observed what appear to be military vessels of significant size and presumed firepower in their harbors. Unlike conventional naval ships, these vessels appear to be constructed entirely of metal, with no visible sails or oars. I have observed them in motion, but cannot guess as to the manner or method of their propulsion. I also observe emplacements of what are surely weapons along the decks of many of these ships, but as with the small handheld weapons the humans here seem to favor, I am unable to ascertain their nature.”

  He paused. “As to the temperament and nature of the humans themselves, I have seen—again, via the use of magic to project myself into the main square—no signs of a hostile disposition. Their manner seems relaxed, unguarded, and generally agreeable when interacting with others of their own kind. They appear fond of congregating in communal gathering places marked by green signs with heraldry depicting a mermaid or some sort of siren and imbibing cups of some steaming brown liquid which I cannot identify. I also note an unexpectedly high level of genetic variation among the populace. Commerce is also held in apparent esteem. Every street is crammed with mercantile establishments selling goods that appear to be either very highly crafted or produced in tremendous quantity. Some of these goods are identifiable and expected: clothing, food, and other necessities. But others are unknown to me.”

  Varthiel's charcoal paused as he witnessed something that made his breath catch in his throat. A human child, no more than ten years old by his estimation, had produced one of the small rectangular devices from her pocket and was speaking into it. Within moments, an adult—presumably a parent—emerged from a nearby building with obvious urgency. The child had summoned assistance across distance without magic, without messengers, without any means the Dark Elf could comprehend.

  Varthiel’s head swam as the implications of that sank in. "I also note with utmost gravity their apparent mastery of instantaneous communication across vast distances. The humans, even the very young ones, all seem to possess small slab-like devices, some larger than others, but all small enough to hold in the palm of one’s hand, into which they speak and which somehow allows them to communicate with other humans who are not present. I have witnessed this phenomenon repeatedly and can attest to its veracity. The implications of this—if technology it is—for military coordination and intelligence gathering are profound beyond measure. A military force equipped with such devices could coordinate attacks across vast distances with a precision no army in the world could match. How humans have achieved this without the employment of sorcery is a question for which there is no answer, and I attest to the apparent absence of magical practitioners among them. I have maintained careful observation for several hours and detected not the slightest emanation of arcane energy from any individual.”

  The Dark Elf's expression darkened. “Just as disturbing is what I haven’t seen. There are no defensive fortifications of any kind surrounding the settlement, no visible military presence beyond the relatively small number of uniformed humans described previously. Either these humans are foolishly complacent or arrogant to the point of stupidity…or perhaps they are so assured in their power and reach that they see no need for such defenses." He frowned at his own words. "I consider the latter possibility far more likely. Given the evidence of their technological capabilities, I suspect any defensive measures they do possess aside from their naval assets are either concealed or of a nature unfamiliar to me. And one final note: this is, by all appearances, just one very small settlement, along the northern frontier of this new land. If such a small community is home to such things as those I have described, what might other, larger settlements possess?"

  "Recommendation," he concluded, his voice carrying the weight of three centuries of military experience. "These humans represent a potential threat of unprecedented magnitude. Their technological capabilities, while apparently non-magical in nature, appear to rival many applications of sorcery. Every eventuality, including the outbreak of hostilities, should be prepared for."

  Varthiel allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he reviewed his notes. The Lady Nyrena would be pleased with his thoroughness. He was about to continue his dictation when movement from some of the humans standing nearby caught his eye. A small crowd had gathered around what appeared to be a newsstand, their attention focused on something that had clearly caused considerable excitement. Through his magically enhanced vision, Varthiel could make out the bold headlines of what he assumed were information sheets or proclamations of some kind. The writing the humans used was unknown to him, but another whispered word of power allowed Varthiel to see it in the Sar’Kadan script.

  What he saw made his blood freeze in his veins.

  The headline was accompanied by a grainy image that, despite its poor quality, was unmistakably clear: armored figures with braided beards standing on what appeared to be a dock. Dwarves. The caption beneath spoke of "first contact" and "diplomatic relations,” which was evidently the source of the humans’ excitement.

  Varthiel's mind raced as he processed the implications. His gloved hand made a fist.

  The Dwarves—those stubborn, insular mountain-dwellers—had somehow beaten the Sar'Kadan to first contact with these technologically advanced humans! Worse, they appeared to have done so successfully, judging by the celebratory tone of the human crowd below.

  He gritted his teeth. If the strangers and the Under-Realm joined together, the Sar’Kadan would be reduced to irrelevancy! The Dominion could not allow any other nation, not even its sometime ally, the Under-Realm, to assume preeminence.

  We were too cautious, he thought furiously. We did as we always do. We watched and listened, and as we held back, the Dwarves acted boldly. And now the Dwarves are poised to reap the benefits of their audacity--benefits that should rightfully belong to the Sar'Kadan!

  It was, Varthiel had to admit with grudging respect, exactly the sort of bold move one might expect from King Firebeard's people. The Dwarves had never been ones for subtle maneuvering or lengthy deliberation. When they wanted something, they took the direct approach. We should have done the same.

  With a snarl of frustration, Varthiel put his scroll and charcoal away, turned his mount around, and directed Icepaw higher into the clouds. He had seen enough. The Lady Nyrena and the Queen needed this information immediately! If the humans and Dwarves were already establishing formal relations, the Sar'Kadan would need to act quickly to avoid being outmaneuvered in the race for influence—a race they hadn’t even known they were losing!

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  The Dark Elf's face hardened into a mask of determination. The Dominion would not be left behind.

  As Varthiel wheeled Icepaw toward the north, his mind churning with the implications of his discovery, he remained unaware that his presence had not gone entirely unnoticed. Three hundred miles to the south, in a nondescript building in Minneapolis that housed a joint NSA-Air Force monitoring station, Sergeant Amanda Torres was staring at her radar screen with growing concern.

  "Sir," she called to her supervisor, "I'm getting an intermittent contact at bearing two-seven-zero. It's been maintaining its position for over an hour."

  Major Jonathan Baines moved to stand behind her chair, studying the faint blip. In his fifteen years of radar operation, he'd seen everything from migrating birds to weather balloons create false contacts, but this was different.

  "Could be atmospheric interference," Torres suggested, though her tone carried doubt. "The weather front moving in from the west is creating some unusual patterns."

  Baines frowned at the screen. The contact moved with purpose, not the random drift of a weather phenomenon. "Run a comparison against known aircraft in the area. Commercial, military, private—everything."

  Torres's fingers flew across her keyboard, pulling up flight tracking data. After several minutes, she shook her head. "Nothing matches, sir. No filed flight plans, no transponder signals. Whatever it is, it's not showing any heat signatures.”

  “Some sort of bird?” Baines suggested.

  She shook her head again. “If it is, it’s got a wingspan larger than anything we’ve got. It’s way too big for anything domestic but too small to be an airplane.”

  “Could be one of those monster birds the papers talked about,” the man sitting next to her piped up.

  Baines pursed his lips. “Maybe. But we don’t know that for certain, and I don’t like uncertainty. I want to know, for certain, what’s been inside our airspace, and I want to know it yesterday. If it’s just a big bird, let it go. If it’s not…well, if it’s not, then we’ll go from there. Scramble two of our birds and go after it.”

  “Yes, sir!” Torres spoke into her headset and relayed the order. “Scramble Falcon Flight. Intercept unknown contact at bearing two-seven-zero, angles twenty.”

  On the tarmac, ground crews exploded into action. They hurried about with all the single-minded drive of worker ants to prepare a pair of F-16CM Fighting Falcon fighter jets for launch. Fuel hoses snaked across the concrete like hungry serpents, and klaxons blared to warn others to keep away from the operational area. The pilots, Lieutenant Sarah van Horst and Captain Marcus Hayes, were already strapped into their cockpits, helmet visors down. Van Horst's gloved fingers danced over switches as she ran through her pre-flight checks: reviewing weather and flight conditions, performing a thorough physical inspection of the aircraft, and ensuring all necessary equipment is present and functional.

  "Falcon Flight," crackled a voice in the pilots' ears. "Tower. Winds calm, runway cleared. You are cleared for immediate takeoff."

  Van Horst's thumb clicked the transmit button. "Copy, Tower. Falcon One, rolling."

  Takeoff was always her favorite part. Van Horst loved to fly. The way the engines roared to life and blazed with orange fire, the way the engines screamed as the plane accelerated down the runway, the sheer sense of power knowing that this fearsome, deadly machine was at her beck and call, that she could make it dance through the sky at her slightest whim. The G-forces pressed her back into her seat as the F-16 clawed its way into the sky, leaving Minneapolis shrinking below. Hayes followed close behind in Falcon Two.

  "Never gets old, does it?" Marcus chuckled through the comm.

  "The day it gets old is the day I hang up my wings," Van Horst retorted.

  "Is that a note of saltiness I hear? Still sore over that game of Scrabble last night?"

  Van Horst rolled her green eyes. "Shut up. That triple word score with 'quixotic' was pure luck." She scanned her instruments, and a professional tone returned to her voice. "Falcon One, switching to tactical frequency. Torres, feed us the bogey's position."

  "This is Torres. Bogey is maintaining altitude at angels twenty, bearing two-seven-zero. Speed approximately eighty knots. Still no transponder signal or heat signature." The radar operator's voice remained calm, but Van Horst caught the underlying tension. An unidentified contact flying that high without a heat trail was definitely abnormal. And in the military, the jump from "abnormal" to "threat" was often a short one.

  "I hope it is one of those giant birds," Hayes remarked. "Been wanting to see one. Clyde over in Falcon Three says the guys up at Marks Air Force Base got a good look at one right after the Event. Big as a house, apparently."

  Van Horst shook her head. "Not me. The fewer monsters we have to tangle with, the better. At least we're not in the Navy. Those poor bastards have to deal with fucking sea monsters." She adjusted her grip on the stick. "Torres, any change?"

  "Negative. Maintain current course to intercept. Provide visual confirmation as soon as you're within range. I want to know what we're dealing with."

  "Copy."

  Van Horst pushed the throttle forward, the F-16 slicing through the thin air. Below, the patchwork of Minnesota farmland gave way to dense forest. The sky was a washed-out blue, streaked with high cirrus clouds. Hayes maintained formation off her starboard wing.

  "Did you hear about the Dwarves?" Hayes went on. He had always been a chatterbox, and Van Horst, more taciturn by nature, appreciated his sense of humor and his ability to cut through tension. It was one of the reasons they worked so well together, and one of the reasons they'd decided, last month, to get married. They were keeping that last bit on the down-low for the moment, though. Otherwise, the rest of the wing would tease them to death.

  "Who hasn't? I'm still trying to wrap my head around it," Van Horst said. "My little brother went completely insane--he's always been a fan of Tolkien."

  Hayes chuckled. "Tell him to--wait. Torres, I've got visual. Eleven o'clock high." His eyes narrowed behind the visor. The silhouette was unmistakable against the cloud layer--too large for any known bird, wings broad and leathery like a bat's. Something rode on its back. Something humanoid.

  "Falcon One? Report."

  Hayes kept his tone crisp and businesslike, ignoring the ludicrousness of what he was about to say. "Bogey is a humanoid, sir, and he's not flying under his own power. He's...riding some sort of creature, a big one."

  "Describe."

  "Large winged creature," Hayes reported, his voice tight. "Estimated wingspan, twenty feet. The creature appears lupine in nature, but its wings are similar to those of a bat. It's flying awfully fast for something that size. Rider's cloaked, pale-skinned, pointy ears—he may not even be human, but if he is, he got lost on his way to the most metal Renaissance Fair ever."

  "Time until intercept?"

  "We're closing on it now," Van Horst piped up. "ETA fifteen seconds. Orders?"

  "Falcon Flight, maintain visual," Torres ordered. "Attempt radio contact on all frequencies. Standard intercept protocol. Order them to turn that thing they're riding around and escort them back here. Make it polite--we don't know who or what we're dealing with--but don't take no for an answer."

  "Sir," Hayes said. "They may not have a radio on which to hear us. But I'll try." He switched frequencies, his voice calm but firm. "Unidentified aircraft, this is Captain Marcus Hayes of the United States Air Force. You have entered restricted airspace. Alter course immediately to heading zero-nine-zero and prepare to land at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport."

  Varthiel Arakanos, astride his mount, couldn't believe his eyes. The two enormous flying machines had come upon him so fast he hadn't had time to try to lose them in the clouds. He'd heard, at first, a high-pitched screaming noise--odd in itself, but nothing worth getting alarmed over. But then the pair of enormous metal beasts had shown up--shown up with such speed, it was almost as if they used some teleportation spell. Fear--an emotion alien to his race--welled up inside him, and he decided at once he hated how it felt. Icepaw roared in panic, and blue mist gathered in his mouth as he prepared to unleash his freezing breath on these new enemies, but Varthiel put a hand on his great shaggy head to still him.

  There were humans inside the machines, he could see that now. A pair of them, one male judging by his broad shoulders, and the other a female judging from the long hair spilling out from beneath her helmet, seated beneath conical windows of some clear substance. He felt his heart sink as they reduced their speed to fly on either side of his mount. Both of them looked like they were trying to say something--the male human was speaking into some sort of small black handheld box--and were growing increasingly frustrated in the process.

  Varthiel swallowed but did his best to remain calm. If these humans wanted to kill him, they would have done it already. He had to keep telling himself that. They could have used whatever weapons their flying machines carried--and he was sure they had to be armed, for they were clearly built for war--to destroy him and Icepaw both before they even knew what hit them.

  The male was getting more agitated. The female picked up a small black box of her own and spoke into it. Whatever it was seemed to calm him. Then, to his astonishment, the human woman turned, looked right at him, and pointed downward, jabbing several times for emphasis.

  Varthiel spoke more than a dozen languages, but he didn't need any of them to get the woman's point. Her meaning was unmistakable: Land. Now.

  The Dark Elf scout hesitantly held up a hand to show he understood and spurred Icepaw into a gentle downward angle. He had no idea where he was being taken or what the humans would do to him once he got there. But he swore, by all the gods, that he would say nothing of his people, give away nothing that would endanger the Dominion. He fully expected to be tortured and for the humans to show every bit of the barbarism their primitive race was renowned for, but he would not break. He was of the Children, and they were as strong as iron and as unyielding as a glacier. He would not give the humans the satisfaction of breaking him. He would, to the very end, uphold the honor and dignity of the Dark Elves.

  Van Horst watched the wolf-thing's rider descend. "He's complying," she reported. "Following us down."

  "Thank goodness," Hayes breathed. "I really, really did not want to start my Monday by killing someone."

  The flight back to the airbase took longer than the flight out of it, due mainly to the reduced speed Hayes and Van Horst had to fly at to avoid losing their "guest." As they flew on either side of both rider and mount, Van Horst took the opportunity to study him more closely. The creature he rode was, she had to admit, badass—a winged wolf, its fur a mix of silver and grey, its eyes intelligent and alert. The rider himself was tall and lean beneath his cloak, with pale skin and long, pointed ears protruding from beneath his hood. His expression was calm, almost serene, but his eyes were wary, constantly scanning the sky around him and the ground below. He looked, Van Horst thought, like a man walking through a minefield.

  "Whatever that thing he's riding is, I want one," Hayes declared.

  Van Horst snorted with laughter. "You're impossible."

  "And that's why you love me."

  "Yeah." Her voice softened for a moment. "Yeah. It is."

  "What do you think they'll do with him once we get there?"

  She shrugged. "That's above our pay grade. Certainly, Baines will want a word with him. After that, who knows?" She glanced at the stranger again. He met her gaze this time, his expression unreadable. "I think he's scared."

  "Of course he is. Hell, I would be. Hey, wanna score some Chinese once we get back to base? I'm starving."

  Van Horst grinned. "Only if you're buying."

  "You wound me. I never let a lady pay on a date," laughed her husband-to-be.

  For Varthiel, the flight back to the airbase seemed to take forever. He had the better part of several hours to contemplate his fate, and each possibility seemed worse than the last. These humans were advanced, very advanced, but that didn't automatically make them any better than, say, the Imperials of Morghast or the pirates of the Jal-Hadar Sultanate. Neither did the fact that the Under-Realm was already entering into relations with them. Who, after all, could say what went through the minds of Dwarves? Perhaps the Under-kin had been deceived, or the humans had grown adept at hiding their true nature. Whatever the case, Varthiel's people knew that expecting the worst from humans was always the wisest and most realistic course.

  So Varthiel did his best to find a sense of inner calm, and made his peace with his gods, and penned a letter back home to his paramour and young son that he knew they'd never read. He even composed a poem about it. The Sar'Kadan held few of the creative arts in higher esteem than poetry.

  Varthiel’s lips moved silently, composing the dirge as he and Icepaw went stoically toward certain doom. The wind carried his whispered verses:

  "On wings of frost, through skies unknown,

  I go where none have ever flown.

  The metal beasts, with shrieking breath,

  Have sealed my path to certain death.

  O, Icepaw swift, companion true,

  What darkling halls await us two?

  No hearthfire warm in Sarnath's keep,

  No lover's sigh, no child's soft sleep,

  But chains that bite and whips that crack,

  Brands that burn my flesh to black.

  Let iron will and silence deep,

  Guard the realm the Dark Elves keep,

  Though tongue be torn and bones will break,

  My people I shall not forsake."

  Three hours and forty-five minutes later, Torres's voice crackled in the pilots' comms again. "Falcon Flight, Minneapolis Tower. You are cleared for a visual approach to Runway Three-Five Right. Maintain current altitude and vector. Ground teams are standing by. Is Bogey showing any signs of hostility? Over."

  "Copy that, Tower. Negative on Bogey. He's been awfully quiet this whole way," Van Horst replied, banking gently toward the sprawling airfield below. "But he looks ready to bolt if we give him half a chance. That thing he's riding isn't anything to sneeze at, either. Keep the ground crews well away from it, or someone's gonna lose an arm. Over."

  "Copy, Falcon One," Torres responded. "Ground teams will maintain perimeter distance, and we'll have armed personnel standing by in case things get dicey. Proceed with caution."

  Varthiel looked down at the sprawling, enormous city beneath him, watching it grow larger and larger as his mount and the two flying machines headed groundward. He knew, in that moment, that he was well and truly lost. The sheer size of it alone...

  From such a place, escape was surely impossible. He was certain he would never leave this alien realm alive, and he accepted that. He had to. The greatest show of emotion he allowed himself was to close his eyes, very briefly, as if afflicted by some great pain. He thought of his paramour Ji'rayal and of his son Har'Kel, who was only just reaching the cusp of adolescence. The boy would soon be choosing his own zburator mount--a milestone in the life of every Dark Elf--and Varthiel would not be there to see it.

  The Dark Elf swallowed against a thick wall of grief. He could see the airfield directly below him now—a vast plain of concrete scarred with runways and dotted with angular metal structures. Strange vehicles swarmed over it like beetles over mammoth dung. Even as he watched, armed security personnel formed a wide cordon around the designated landing zone, rifles held low but ready. Fire trucks and medical units idled nearby, engines rumbling. Every eye tracked the descending trio: two sleek F-16s flanking a creature ripped from myth.

  Varthiel Arakanos touched down on the unfamiliar tarmac of Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. The air tasted acrid, thick with fumes and the scent of ozone. Icepaw snarled softly, hackles raised, as armored vehicles rolled forward to encircle them.

  "Steady," the Elf whispered to his longtime friend. "Steady. Whatever comes, we face it together."

  The zburator snarled but lowered his head in compliance. One of the humans--an officer of some sort, no doubt--spoke in a loud and authoritative tone. He was holding some sort of device in his hand that amplified the volume of his voice far beyond its natural limits.

  "Remain seated!" Major Baines's amplified voice echoed across the tarmac, cutting through the whine of the F-16s' engines as they taxied away.

  Varthiel stayed perfectly still atop Icepaw, his cloak whipping in the unnatural wind stirred by the jets. The noise they produced was incredible, and he had to fight the impulse to cover his ears.

  "Get off the...wolf-thing," the man went on. "Nice and easy. Put your hands in the air."

  Icepaw took very clear umbrage at that and snarled again. Varthiel was just as offended. The zburator was the natural companion and friend of his people, and they were well-deserving of the place of honor they held in Dark Elf society. To describe Icepaw or any of his kind in such a way only demonstrated the depths of human ignorance.

  But the Dark Elf complied and bit back the scathing retort on his tongue. He swung his leg over Icepaw’s broad back and slid down onto the tarmac. He raised his hands slowly, palms open. The gesture felt alien and demeaning.

  "Who are you," the man demanded, "and where are you from?"

  Varthiel was silent for a long, long time. There were, he knew, only two ways this could end. The first, and most likely, way was the humans torturing him to death. Yet...for all the deserved disdain his kind held for theirs, perhaps there was an opportunity here. On the very small off-chance that these humans were not murderous knuckle-draggers like so many of their backward race, perhaps he could learn something of value to the Dominion, outmaneuver the Dwarves...and perhaps even save his own skin. At the very least, he should make the attempt. And if the humans proved hostile, well, then he would have the consolation that he did his duty.

  When he finally spoke, he straightened to his full height, looked down his nose at the human rabble, and with all the pride and haughtiness he could muster, said, "Human, know that you are standing in the presence of Varthiel Arakanos, servant of Lady Nyrena of House Aran'yar and Queen Alarae Ilyiran, Empress and Autocrat of the Dominion of Sarnath, beloved by all. Know that should you attempt to torture me, to break me, I will die with naught but defiance on my lips, and the wrath of the Sar'Kadan shall rain down upon you, for our hearts are as stone when roused to anger and the bitter cold of winter is ours to command. But, should you have the wits enough to realize the benefits of peace, then perhaps we may speak as something akin to equals. For now, I demand to know where I am and by what right you dare to detain me. Do you speak for this rabble, or is there another here with the authority to treat with me?”

  Major Baines blinked, momentarily stunned. He’d expected fear, confusion, perhaps defiance. Not this regal, almost theatrical challenge. He lowered the megaphone, exchanged a glance with his second-in-command, then cleared his throat. “I speak for the United States of America, sir. You are in Minnesota. And we detained you because you violated our sovereign airspace without permission or identification. Standard procedure.”

  “Your airspace?” Varthiel repeated with a derisive snort. How very like humans. So covetous and greedy was their race that they even sought to claim the very skies for themselves. “Next, you will tell me that the sun and stars are also yours.”

  “The sun and stars are not in our flight paths,” Baines retorted. He lowered the megaphone and signaled to the cordon of soldiers. Rifles remained trained on the Dark Elf, but the tension had shifted—a wary curiosity replacing outright hostility. “Look, we can stand here trading insults, or we can talk. Your choice.”

  Varthiel brushed an invisible piece of something from the shoulder of his cloak. Inwardly, his heart was pounding in his chest, and his palms were slick with fear, but he made no sign of it. “Very well,” he said. He turned to Icepaw. “Stay,” he commanded. “Be still. Do not bite.”

  The zburator whined but settled onto its haunches, its eyes fixed on the ring of humans and their weapons.

  “Is…is that thing going to be left on its own?” Baines asked.

  “A zburator is not a ‘thing,’ human,” Varthiel snapped. “He is Icepaw, my companion for twenty winters. Fear not. He will remain docile until I order otherwise. Attempt to cage or restrain him at your peril.”

  Baines held up a placating hand. “Fine. He stays. But you come with us. Peacefully.”

  “A fine jest,” said the Elf, “from one whose race is so enamored of war.”

  But he stepped forward, his boots clicking on the tarmac. The soldiers tightened their circle, weapons ready. Baines gestured to follow.

  Varthiel decided to try to fish for information. “How did you detect me? We were miles from the coast when your…machines caught up with us.”

  “Radar,” Baines replied curtly, leading him toward a waiting armored vehicle. “We see everything that flies.”

  That gave Varthiel pause. “Everything?”

  “Everything,” Baines confirmed, opening the vehicle’s rear door. “Now, if you’ll—”

  Varthiel froze, his mind racing. If these humans could see everything in the sky, the implications were staggering. Sarnath’s aerial scouts, the Dominion’s eyes across the frozen wastes, operated under the assumption of stealth. Entire patrol routes, supply drops, even the Empress’s own ceremonial flights—all potentially visible to these strangers.

  “And I am the first of my kind to have graced you with my presence? You have not seen one of my race before?”

  Baines hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “We’ve had… reports. Nothing confirmed. You’re the first we’ve intercepted.”

  “And why is that? Perhaps this radar of which you speak is not as infallible as you claim.”

  Baines ignored the jab. “Inside, please.”

  Varthiel looked at the armored vehicle, and it took every ounce of restraint that he had to keep his lip from curling in disgust. It was a crude, blocky, ugly thing that stank—a sharp, acrid stench he had never experienced before. It was also making an absurd amount of noise as it idled in place.

  “I would sooner allow Icepaw to eat me than set foot in that abomination.”

  Baines sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. We’ll walk.” He signaled his men, and the cordon shifted toward a low, nondescript building nearby. Varthiel strode beside him, head held high, though his eyes darted toward every unfamiliar sound—the roar of jets taking off, the rumble of distant generators, the metallic clang of equipment. The air tasted bitter, thick with exhaust and the tang of ozone.

  “Walk?” Varthiel echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Am I a prisoner to be paraded, or an envoy to be received?”

  Baines paused, his expression tightening. "For now, you're a guest with questions to answer. Walk or ride—your pick, but we're moving." He gestured firmly toward the building. Varthiel’s nostrils flared at the stench of fuel and humanity, but he fell into step, his cloak swirling around him. He decided, in the interest of diplomacy, not to press further on the indignity of it.

  “What is the nature of this place?” asked the Dark Elf. “I see many machines similar to those that brought me here.”

  “Airbase,” Baines replied curtly. “Military installation.”

  “And you command it?”

  “Yes.”

  “To whom do you owe fealty?”

  Baines stopped abruptly near a chain-link fence buzzing with unseen energy. “The President of the United States. And the Constitution.”

  “Those names mean nothing to me.”

  “They will.” Baines resumed walking. The low building ahead was unremarkable—gray concrete, few windows. A heavy steel door stood open, revealing a sterile corridor lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Varthiel recoiled at the unnatural glare. The Dark Elves were not accustomed to such bright light.

  The human seemed to notice his discomfort. “First time indoors?” Baines asked, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. Varthiel didn’t dignify it with a response. The corridor led to a stark room—white walls, a metal table, two chairs bolted to the floor. A mirrored panel dominated one wall. Varthiel’s reflection stared back: pale, proud, utterly out of place. He knew what that mirror was. Interrogation rooms were universal.

  “I can get you a snack or something if you’re hungry,” Baines went on. "Something hot to drink, maybe. We've got Twinkies in the vending machine down the hall."

  Varthiel had no idea what a Twinkie was and didn't want to find out. He remained standing, refusing the offered chair. The room's sterile air tasted flat and lifeless. "Your attempts at hospitality are noted," he said. "But I must decline."

  "Suit yourself." Baines sat down in a chair. "So. You've been asking a lot of questions since the moment you stepped onto the tarmac, pal. Why don't you tell me a little more about who you are and where you're from? You mentioned a Queen, right? A Dominion or something?"

  Varthiel remained standing, his posture rigid. "I am Varthiel Arakanos, sworn to Lady Nyrena of House Aran'yar--"

  "Lady who of what, now?"

  The Dark Elf closed his eyes and briefly prayed for patience. No wonder his kind went out of their way to avoid interacting with humans. Dealing with them was exhausting. "Lady Nirenya," he repeated slowly, "of House Aran'yar."

  "So a noble house, basically."

  "Such a description is crude and lacking in nuance, but yes, that is an accurate if primitive way to describe it," Varthiel replied, his tone clipped. He tried to ignore the buzzing of the lights overhead. It was extremely irritating.

  "And what's she like? This Nyrena?"

  "Lady Nyrena is a paragon of Sar'Kadan grace and wisdom," Varthiel declared, his voice sharpening with pride. "I am honored to serve her."

  "You've met her?"

  "She has not given me the gift of standing before her."

  "Then how does she command your loyalty?" Baines asked.

  "Through lineage, deed, and an unbroken chain of fealty stretching back to the First Frost," Varthiel snapped, his patience fraying like old rope. "We do not require personal audiences to know our duty, human." He gestured sharply toward the buzzing fluorescent lights. "Must your chambers assault the senses so? This light hurts my eyes. And that infernal noise—"

  Before Baines could respond, the door swung open. A woman entered, clad in a dark suit that contrasted sharply with her brisk efficiency. She carried a tablet and moved with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to command. "Major Baines? A moment." Her eyes flicked to Varthiel, assessing him with unnerving calm. "I'm Agent Shaw, CIA. We'll take it from here."

  "I never called the CIA," Baines protested.

  The woman gave a thin smile. "We know. Few people do. This comes from higher up, I'm afraid. This situation exceeds local jurisdiction. We'll take it from here."

  Varthiel eyed Shaw warily. He could tell at once that this slight, unassuming female was more formidable than Baines. There was something about the way she studied him, a cold, analytical gaze that reminded him of his own people. And she moved with the air of one who knew her authority and was not afraid to use it.

  "Higher up?" Baines frowned. "Ma'am, this is my base—"

  "And this," Shaw cut in, in a polite tone that brooked no argument, "is a matter of national security. Your birdwatcher here," she nodded toward Varthiel, "is the first confirmed contact with an intelligent non-human species on American soil since the Event, aside from the Dwarves. We’ll handle the debrief." She didn’t wait for Baines’s reply, turning her full attention to Varthiel. Her eyes swept over him—taking in the fine embroidery of his cloak, the bone-hilted dagger at his belt, the unnatural pallor of his skin.

  For a moment, it looked like Baines was going to protest further, but he knew the futility of it. When the CIA came knocking, it was best to open the door.

  He sighed and gave the Dark Elf an apologetic glance. "Sorry," he said. "It's out of my hands."

  Varthiel did not reply. Shaw watched the major go until he exited the room. The door clanged loudly shut behind him, and then they were alone.

  "Now," she said. "Let us begin."